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BALLADS OF HINDUSTAN.

Months passed, and lo, one summer morn
As to the hermitage she went
Through smiling fields of waving corn,
She saw some youths on sport intent,
Sons of the hermits, and their peers,
And one among them tall and lithe,
Royal in port,—on whom the years
Consenting, shed a grace so blithe,
So frank and noble, that the eye
Was loth to quit that sun-browned face;
She looked and looked,—then gave a sigh,
And slackened suddenly her pace.

What was the meaning—was it love?
Love at first sight, as poets sing,
Is then no fiction? Heaven above
Is witness, that the heart its king
Finds often like a lightning flash;
We play,—we jest,—we have no care,—
When hark a step,—there comes no crash,—
But life, or silent slow despair.
Their eyes just met,—Savitri past
Into the friendly Muni's hut.
Her heart-rose opened had at last—

Opened no flower can ever shut.